


Dreams of Drowning

by iamthemagicks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthemagicks/pseuds/iamthemagicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is injured in an accident saving Sam from a house fire, but Sam's fiancé, Jess dies, and Dean is badly scarred. Blind out of one eye, burns on the side of his face and arm. He begins pulling away from his wife, Lisa and their son Ben, and is weary to be near Lisa now that she’s expecting their second child. Sam is changed, now very withdrawn, hardly ever leaving Dean and Lisa's home.</p>
<p>    Castiel Novak is suddenly in charge of his niece Claire after the death of his brother and wife. Unsure of how to cope with the loss of his twin, he begins attending grief counseling at a local church where he meets Dean, who has been attending unbeknownst to Lisa. They form a bond over what it is to be a brother, and (according to them, fail at it).</p>
<p>    Lisa is forming her own bond with Castiel (also unknown to Dean) when they meet at the park where Ben plays. Ben strikes up a friendship with Claire that makes the little girl talk and smile since the death of her parents. Neither Dean, nor Lisa, realize they are both having feelings for the same man, while Castiel is unaware that he’s falling in love with a married couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings/triggers: Major character death in the past, and frank discussion of a suicide attempt.

Lisa wakes up alone. Well not _really_ alone as the barely-there bump of her belly reminds her. It’s not really noticeable, not yet anyway. Strangers can’t tell, her friends can’t really tell either. Not unless she stands and pulls up her shirt, pulls down her pants just a bit. She’s fit, strong stomach muscles from years of yoga and jogging. She didn’t show early with her first child, so she doubts this one will make an appearance soon. But as Lisa stretches her long legs, one long arm to the other side of the bed where her husband (and she uses the term loosely because they never had a wedding, just their names on paper) should be, but like so many mornings since the fire, since he got out of the hospital, she finds his side of the bed empty. So, yes, despite the growing life inside of her, she feels terribly alone.

She opens her eyes into the bright orange glow of morning, the far window cracked open letting in a breeze, cool and salty, coming right off the bay. The curtains which she made (and not very well, Dean actually had to finish them) move with the wind. She runs her fingers over the neatly made side of the bed, then pulls his pillow to her. She buries her face in the material and inhales deeply. The smell of his shampoo, his body-wash. Something that promises a manly scent, fresh with some silly adjective. Swagger. Robust. Whatever it is, it’s him and she holds that pillow like it’s his body. For a few minutes she stays folded like this; wrapped around his pillow, cocooned by sheets and a thin quilt, until the alarm sounds.

With a groan, she releases the pillow and rolls over to slam her hand down on the shell-shaped clock radio. 7:15am, time to get started.

She pulls open the curtains on the way to the bathroom. She finds it in pristine condition, sparkly sink and chrome fixtures, smelling of citrus and 409. Early, before the sun had come up, she thought she heard clanking and rinsing, but had ignored it; a lot of the time, he wandered the house, cleaning, arranging. Sometimes just going to sit in their son’s room, watching, and falling asleep on the floor. 

As Lisa leans over the sink, she thinks she may vomit. The morning sickness had subsided a few weeks ago, but still occasionally made an appearance. She waits, bracing her hands on the sink, staring at herself in the mirror. She’s gained some weight already. Not too much though. Her face is rounding a bit, her breasts just starting to swell. They—well, she—has only started telling people in the last month. Dean doesn’t say much to anyone nowadays.

The sick feeling passes and she goes about her routine. Pees, washes her hands, brushes her teeth, pulls back her hair. She dresses in frilly pink longue shorts, pulls on one of Dean’s old rock tees. Blue Oyster Cult and she thinks that’s what they had been listening two when this second child was conceived. 

On her dresser is a vase, with fresh picked lilacs. She pauses at them, touching the fine petals and wishes she had been awake when Dean placed them there.

Down the hall, she checks in on Ben. All of three-and-a-half and lying on his back in his racecar bed, black like Dean’s precious Impala, because Ben wants to be just like Daddy. Ben is awake; he’s making his teddy bear dance in the air, singing the wrong words to “Don’t Stop Believing”. 

“Morning,” she greets.

He drops the bear and sits up. “Can I get up now?” He’s under strict regulation to stay in his room until Mommy or Daddy is awake.

“Yeah. Are you hungry?”

He nods and jumps out of bed, rushing to her. He wraps his little arms around her legs and presses his face to her stomach, kissing through the material. “Morning, baby.” They told him last week that in the fall, he would have a brother or sister. He takes this notion very seriously despite his overwhelming excitement.

In the kitchen, Ben pulls himself into a chair at the table. Lisa discovers the kitchen spotless as well. The dishes from last night’s dinner washed and put away, Dean’s coffee mug rinsed and placed in the drying rack. No breakfast for him, not even toast. She frowns, going for the fridge.

There’s a note, in Dean’s neat script: _Went for a run, then I’m going to the shop to start on some fresh pies. – Dean._ Their pie shop, _Mary’s Pies_ , named after his dead mother, because that’s where most of the recipes came from. A small composition notebook filled with all kinds of pies and cakes. Fruit and cream pies, meringue and sweet fillings. It had been Lisa’s idea to add the meat pies to the menu. And even though he never said, you were right, he knew that the idea helped double the business. 

Last night at closing, she had started a few of the fruit pies for today, and Dean had stayed after to clean, and she was sure, make more.  
“I want pancakes,” Ben says. He taps a spoon against the table.

“Will do.”

She makes the batter and throws in some chocolate chips, then starts to brew coffee. A glass of milk for Ben, juice for her and they sit in a well known silence. The percolating coffee, the sizzling pancakes waiting to be flipped. 

Then the door to the basement opens. Ben’s ready to jump out of his chair, run across the room and greet his Uncle Sam, but Lisa puts up a hand and mouths, _no_ , and defeated, Ben stays in his seat, but kicks his legs under the table. Ben doesn’t really know why, doesn’t understand that Sam is different.

Sam moves across the living room in almost unsure steps, his broad shoulders slouched, his head drawn down, long hair mussed and covering his face. 

“Morning.” She smiles.

“Morning,” he echoes, with little vigor. He uses Dean’s mug and pours himself coffee, then sits at the table across from Ben.

“Hungry?” she asks, flipping the pancakes.

“No thanks.” He just sips his coffee. 

She frowns and moves the cakes to her and Ben’s plates, then sits. They eat in that same heavy silence. Just the sound of the forks scraping plates, Ben slurping his milk.

Half-way through the meal, Lisa gets the sick feeling again and pushes aside her plate. Ben plows through two pancakes and a whole glass of milk. Lisa checks the time. “Go up and start getting ready,” she says. “I’ll be up in a minute.” He nods and runs off.

She clears the plates and starts to run the sink, but Sam stops her, taking gentle hold of her wrist. “I got it, Lise,” he tells her, looking up at her and giving the best smile he can manage. “Go ahead.”

It breaks her heart. The dark circles under his eyes, the visible energy it takes him to force that smile. Like his brother, Sam is different since the fire. His shoddy house (which is why Dean was there in the first place)went up in flames, his fiancé with it, and Dean burned. He lives in the basement, makes appearances in the morning for coffee. Wanders around at night, but never at the same time as his brother.

“Thanks.” Lisa smoothes over his hair before going up stairs. This family is full of false smiles.

A separate routine for upstairs and getting herself and Ben ready. While Ben is in his room, Lisa changes. A flowing teal skirt because the first pair of jeans she tries are a bit tight. A black tank, silver bracelets that jingle as she walks. A pendant of Saint Jude on a chain around her neck. She brushes her teeth again, and braids her hair.

When she checks on Ben his progress is…well he has on pants and socks and shoes, but no shirt, and he stands in front of his mirror, singing along with the radio. She laughs and that catches him off guard, but he plays it cool. “What are you doing?” she asks.

He shrugs, folds his arms. “Rocking out.”

“Oh.” She clicks off his clock radio and hands him the black Led Zeppelin shirt he selected. He puts up his arms and she yanks on the shirt, ruffles his hair into some sort of part. Lisa is taken aback momentarily at the striking resemblance. The older Ben gets, the less of herself she sees. Just her dark hair, the curved mouth. The rest is all Dean; the eyes and nose. The attitude and appetite. “Well.” She shakes her head and ushers him along. “You can rock out in the car. We’re going to be late.”

The routine continues and Lisa imagines some sort of music, an instrumental piece that plays as they walk through the house, like in the movies. That’s what her life is slowly becoming. A sappy film played on the Hallmark Channel late at night. She grabs her jean jacket—ignoring Dean’s sweaty and dirty gray sweatshirt on the rack—and a green flannel for Ben. While she gets his racecar bookbag from under the end table by the door, Ben runs over to Sam sitting at the couch and gives him a kiss before meeting Lisa at the door, and taking the pack from her hands. “Bye Uncle Sam.”

The smile that Sam gives is close to the one that Lisa has become familiar with. Te ones from all the pictures, the one she used to see all the time from before. “Have a good one, bud.”

“I’ll be at the shop until close,” she tells him. She clutches the car keys. “I don’t know…” she doesn’t know Dean’s plans. “I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Sam nods and settles back into the couch.

“Come on.” Lisa pushes Ben out the front door. The lawn is also perfect. Crisp green grass freshly cut, the hedge by the front bay window pruned. She sees where Dean had plucked the sprig of lilacs.

She loads up Ben, straps him in. As she slides into the driver’s side, he starts to kick. “Rock on, Mommy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She starts the car, finds the classic rock station and pulls out of the drive. The sun shines bright, butter-yellow against a blue, cloudless sky. She slips on her sunglasses and croons along with the song, Ben still singing the wrong words. 

**:::**

“Mr. Novak?”

Castiel finally looks away from the window where he ash been watching the traffic on the street below. The lights changing, an old lady on a bicycle almost getting run over by a truck making an illegal left hand turn. “Yes?”

“Just one more paper.” The lawyer, JW Brown, slides a sheet across the giant oak desk and Castiel signs, like he’s signed all the others.

He glances over the paper. Not much different than the one before. He’s inheriting his brother’s estate, the money, the house. Of course it’s meant for Claire. When she turns eighteen, she’ll get half of what Castiel has now, if the house accumulates any value, all the royalties from the book series. Castiel doesn’t need any of it, but now he has Claire, and one day Claire will. 

“Is that everything?” He caps the pen and sets it gently on the large desk. The office, the whole building really, makes him feel small, and school aged again. Like the time he’d been called to the office, with Jimmy, because Castiel had been skipping gym class, and the staff hadn’t quite put it together that James and Castiel Novak were twins, and not one person.

JW Brown gathers all the papers and gives a tight smile. “It is. Here are the keys to the house.” He hands over a default set of keys (which is dumb because Castiel has had his own for years), and a folder with copies of everything he’s signed. The house, policies, the literary licenses, and Jimmy’s daughter Claire, are now his. “All yours,” JW says, like Castiel has won a prize.

“Yeah.” Castiel shakes the lawyer’s hand before pulling on his coat, and walks out of the office.

In the waiting area, the receptionist sits with his niece, coloring in the books that she said she keeps in her desk for other kids who are stuck in a stuffy waiting room. “Want to show him?” she asks.

Claire nods and jumps off the chair, trots over to Castiel and presents him a picture of an elephant and a zebra colored in bright rainbows. He cracks a small smile. “It’s beautiful. Are you ready to go?”

She nods again and grabs his hand. Castiel picks up her little pack, a bright pink bag that carries more than it looks like it can. Castiel and Claire walk out of the building hand in hand. She’s stronger than she looks, which is frail and tiny. Knobby knees and flame-white hair. Crystalline blue eyes, like his own. Like Jimmy’s.

In the car, Castiel checks the rearview. She’s looking out the window and flipping her doll in her hand. “Well,” he says, unsure. “Ready to go home?” She makes eye contact and nods. He tries to smile for her, but just puts the car in reverse and starts down the road.

He’s not from this town, only been by to visit in the last few years since Jimmy and Amelia bought the property. After the book series started to take off, they wanted a small, comfortable time to raise Claire, and any other possible children.

His eyes start to tear up for the third time today. First after waking up with Claire in his bed, and then when she actually smiled at the receptionist and seemed gleeful to be coloring.

It’s been a month since Castiel had been living in DC, selling his paintings on the street and he received a call saying that his brother and his wife had been killed in a car accident. After the reading of the will (and Castiel knew he would have custody of Claire; he and Jimmy had discussed it) Castiel packed up his the station wagon with everything he owned, except furniture that went donation.

Castiel glances around the town. Ma and Pop stores, a tiny post office, lots of restaurants. On the main strip where he drives, he sees the bay, dark green waters, sun glinting bright on the waves. Jimmy always wanted to live by the water.

Pulling up the driveway to the house, Castiel checks the rearview again to find Claire asleep. He sighs and slows the car to a stop, right outside the garage doors. He leans back his head and closes his eyes and concentrates. A game he and Jimmy often played trying to test the limits of the supposed, twin telepathy. See if it was real. They’d both lie side by side in bed and think of a word to see if the other could hear it. But most of the time they ended up picking the same word, so they decided that test wasn’t a good measure. But there was something.

When one cried, so did the other. Castiel felt a sore in his arm when Jimmy broke his, Jimmy often complained of migraines when Castiel hit a block with his painting. Rarely did they ever need words for each other.

And now, Castiel just feels… _nothing._ He’s plagued by that feeling he’s forgotten something, or left something behind. The oven is on, his shirt is on backwards, someone is looking over his shoulder. But the oven is always off, his clothes are (generally) in correct order, and no one is ever there. 

He rifles through a mental dictionary and picks a word. _Rosebud_. He grins.

The serenity is suddenly broken (and Castiel is sure he can just smell Jimmy again) when Claire screams. At the top of her lungs, like she’s been stabbed. Castiel flails, almost falling out of the car as he jumps out the front seat to get to the back.

He unhooks her and pulls Claire to him. She falls easy into his grasp, sobbing against his neck. This is the fourth time this has happened; she wakes up screaming and crying. Scares the daylights out of him. He doesn’t know what she sees, what terrifies her so; she hasn’t spoken a single word since the funeral.

“I know.” Castiel exhales a stuttered breath and sinks against the seat. She cries and he starts to cry and then gets the funny feeling that he’s left his cell phone at the law office.

**:::**

Dean takes long drags from his cigarette, holds the smoke in his lungs until it itches, then exhales a thin and wispy plume of smoke. The breeze takes it away and rustles up the smell of the dumpsters a few yards away. He snorts and takes another long drag, covering up the scent. Dump trucks were by about an hour ago, when Dean first came to the shop. But the tattoo parlor a few doors down emptied their day-old trash after the trucks left. The owner, Saul, gave Dean a head nod, said Morning and ducked back in.

Dean has three tattoos, well two now. The sparrow that he’d gotten in memory of his mother when he was seventeen is buried under layers of burned skin; the only evidence is a black smudge. His stomach sours just thinking about it. He takes another drag, holds this one in until it hurts. He checks his watch, then the window on the back door. She’s not in yet. But soon, Lisa will be coming in the front. That also makes his stomach sour. Fuck.

He crushes the cigarette under the heel of his boot and stands, going back inside. Locks the door behind him. The little hallway with the staff bathroom is covered with graffiti, mostly their hand writing. Dean and Lisa’s. Sam and Jess. Jo scribbling lyrics to classic rock songs. Ben’s crooked and large print of the alphabet, of him trying to write out his full name. _Benjamin Isaac Winchester_ is a bit much. So he just managed Ben, and Dean filled in the rest. He checks his watch again, minutes ticking faster than he expects. He washes his hands, then heads out to the front.

Everything is wiped down and gleaming. A spotless floor, a clear and wide display case for pies that people can buy and take with them. Baked this morning (and a few last night around close). The whole shop smells heavy of sweetness, of flour and fruit. Chocolate bubbling. A soft mixture of the meat pies, seared steak and sautéed mushrooms. Crust that just makes your mouth water lookin’ at it. 

Before, Lisa joked that he was going to gain a thousand pounds before the first week after opening. Because he tested all the food, ate when he cooked—he did the same thing at home. Had done so his whole life, growing up after Mom died, when he had to be both parents to Sam, because Dad was too drunk and sad to do anything. And Dean tested and ate while baking and Lisa laughed and said he’d get fat, and then he grabbed her by the waist and trapped her against the counter. 

_‘but you’ll still love me right?’_

_‘I guess so.’_ And she kissed him and wiggled away to go take more orders.

But that was before. Now, Dean doesn’t eat much. Coffee and cigarettes, sometimes bourbon at night. Like Dad. But Dean won’t drink in front of Ben. Won’t let his son see him like the way Dean often saw his own father. 

The second oven dings and Dean pulls on a pair of frilly oven mitts—a gag gift from Jo for his is thirtieth birthday—and takes out two meat pies. Steak and mushroom, chicken and asparagus with a lotta cheese. Bubbling yellow and a bit brown around the corners, Dean sets them both on the cooling rack, then shuts off the oven. There’s an hour until opening, he could clean the ovens again. Get the glass of the front and back door, the glass of the display. Wipe down all the counters again. Write out the specials on the dry-erase board. Lots he could do before they flip the sign to open and he scuttles to the back office to do paper work for a few hours, then go out to Bobby’s to spend the afternoon under some cars.

He freezes when he hears the jingling of keys and bracelets. He stands at the register watching Lisa unlock the front door. Her head pointing down, strands of her dark hair falling around her face and out of the braid. The sun is right behind her, making her glow, like the goddess that she is and he feels sick again.

She gets in and locks the door behind her, then reaches over to turn on the lights. He squints and she walks further in, but pauses in the middle of the room, pulling her jean made purse over her shoulder, dropping the keys in the bag. “Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” he says back.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here.” She keeps walking and comes behind the counter, walks right by him to the back, leaving a wave of perfume in her wake. Flowers, she’s always smelled like flowers. He listens. She drops the purse on the desk in the office, her bracelets jangle with her every movement as she pulls on an apron and comes back to the register and display area.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Uh, made a few things. Cleaned.” 

“I see that.” A smile, tight. She’s so careful around him. Doesn’t ruffle his feathers, doesn’t ask too many questions anymore.

He scratches his head. “I could do the oven again—”

“They’re all clean, Dean.” She leans against the counter. 

A silence of hitched breaths and cleared throats.

“How’d Ben do this morning?” he remembers. When they first started dropping him off at the pre-school, four days a week, eight to twelve, he had been a crier. Didn’t wanna leave Mom, or Dad. Didn’t want to leave Sam or Jess the few times they did it. But he’s been getting better, by Lisa’s accounts.

She nods, crosses her arms over her chest. “Good. He was real good this morning. Saw Sam. Did fine there.”

At the mention of Sam, Dean tightens again, ducks his head, closes his eyes a second. He can’t see out of the left one, hell the left eye isn’t even real. A white, glass orb stuck in there so he could blink, so he wouldn’t scare people. “Good,” he answers. “Good.”

It used to be so easy, before, being them. Secret smiles and touches all day long. If they had staff to cover the front, and it was a slow day, a quickie in the back office. How he’d get down on his knees for her, eat her out while she was perched on the desk. 

“And uh, things goin’ okay? No more throwing up?” 

A real smile, with her teeth and bright eyes. “Yeah,” she chuckles. “Yeah things are good.”

Ben had been a bigger surprise than this one. They’d been talking about a second one, right around the time they found out she was actually pregnant. But that was around the time of the fire too. 

“I have an appointment,” she says. “Next week. I was thinking we could get Jo and Ash to open, cover the morning.”

“Sure. Yeah.”

“Good.”

Then they separate; Lisa starts baking and Dean cleans out the second oven once it has cooled. Silence of the kitchen noises. 

When Lisa goes to flip the sign and officially open, Dean takes off his apron. “I’m gonna do some paper work,” he says. “Then head out to Bobby’s.”

“Don’t forget Ben.” She unlocks the doors. 

Shit. It’s his day to have him in the afternoon. But the kid likes being up at Bobby’s, spending time with Ellen, who doesn’t have grandkids of her own. “Yeah. No problem.” 

The paper work doesn’t take him long since he did most of it last night. He sits back in the squeaky leather chair and looks at the pictures in frames on the desk. Lots of Ben, lots of her. One of his mother and father. One of him and Sam as kids. All from before. When his face and arm weren’t fucked up, when Sam was happy, and when they were all a family, and he wasn’t just some disfigured grunt who did odd jobs around the house, the hunchback up in the bell tower.

When Dean hears the front door ding and some customers walk in, he stands and grabs his jacket from the rack in the corner. Old and leather, worn. Dad’s. If Dean thinks real hard, he can still pick up the faint scent, though he’s been wearing it for the last twelve years. It’s a little loose on him, especially since being in the hospital. He heads out the back.

From the narrow hall, Dean sees Lisa at the front. She stands at the register with one leg up in the air; she has a butterfly tattoo on her ankle. People shine around her, they laugh, they smile. An angel, a goddess. But when she turns around and their eyes connect, her face drops to a tight mouth, glazed eyes. She sticks a pencil behind her ear and goes to the fridge. Dean ducks out the back door, kicking it shut with a heavy boot.


	2. Chapter 2

**.two.**

While Claire sleeps on the couch, curled in the brown and pink afghan Amelia had spent six months knitting, Castiel wanders his dead brother’s house. Large, old. Built in the early 1900s Jimmy had told him. Four bedrooms, three stories. They didn’t have much growing up; three bedroom apartment, Mom, Jimmy and him, their older brother Gabriel. They always had everything they needed though. Enough food, power was never cut off. Jimmy always had paper and pens and a ride to the library, Castiel had paint.

            But this house, with the garage and yards, with the view of the bay, had been what they wanted. Amelia more rooms for an expanding family, Jimmy a place to work, space to rest.

            Castiel walks into Jimmy’s study. Reminds him of a professor’s office. A large desk with a laptop and a printer, stacks of papers left untouched. A mug of unfinished coffee, mold growing a film around the edge. The smell cloying and bitter, the mass amounts of cream and sugar long past being bad.

            He walks to the bay window, where a book lay, opened but faced down. Castiel runs his finger over the spine, over the fine printed letters of the title and author, and stares out into the sparkling waters of the bay, still hearing Jimmy’s voice.

            ‘ _Come on, Cas, just look!’_ Jimmy gestured, glee all over his face. ‘ _We have a room for you too. And you can see the water from the balcony and back porch.’_

            Cas smiled—he was Cas with Jimmy, when he had Jimmy to complete Cas; but now, he had to be Castiel, completing himself. Cas moved in behind his brother, saw both their faces, absolutely identical, reflected in the glass. ‘ _I like where I live_ ,’ he answered.

            Jimmy laughed and patted Cas on the stomach. ‘ _Yeah, but, you know we can’t stay too far apart._ They both got headaches, longed for the sound of each other’s breathing. ‘ _I want to show you your room. And the kitchen. You’re going to_ love _the kitchen.’_ Jimmy’s warm hand on Castiel’s neck, his boyish smile.

            Now as Castiel stares at the glass, he just sees himself. He turns, unable to bear it, and examines the rest of the room. The giant bookshelf unfilled; the first three sections held fiction, listed alphabetical by author’s last name, the last two slots—reserved for non-fiction, Castiel guessed—sat empty and gathering dust. Piles of boxes had been pushed to the far corner of the room, filled with the dictionaries and old anthologies. Books on sharks and the Civil War, of the black plague and of zombies. Bibles and books on the occult, lists of angel names.

            Castiel, small and incomplete, is named after an angel. Because he was born at 11:55pm on a Thursday, and Jimmy at 12:03am on a Friday. And Castiel born on Thursday had been dead for a whole minute and born on Thursday again when they revived him. Then Jimmy was Jimmy because he couldn’t go by any other name, their mother always said.

            Everything about this room, this house, is unfinished. They had only moved in six months ago. Amelia was a perfectionist, had a mild (and mild was being very, very generous) case of OCD. She didn’t know where she wanted anything, what would make the house look _perfect_. So most of the rooms sit in stasis, waiting for Castiel to fill them, fix them. Pictures to be hung, knick-knacks to be put up. Magnets for the refrigerator, all of Jimmy’s damn books, and now all of what Castiel had packed and brought from D.C. The only thing he’s really brought inside is his suitcase, full of dirty clothes.

            He hears a car coming up the drive, over the gravel and Castiel freezes. Afraid it’s an admirer of Jimmy’s work (occasionally fans of the series managed to find him), or a nosy neighbor. Someone coming to collect a bill or something. He stands still and hears a car door open and shut, then a beeping as the doors are locked. The thought of Claire being woken sends Castiel running down the hall and to the foyer, the front door before the bell can be rung.

            But there is no ringing, not even a knock on the door. It’s just pushed open and Castiel freezes, trying to think of where there is a suitable weapon; an iron rod by the fireplace, Amelia’s rolling pin in the kitchen.

            “Hello?”

            Castiel eases. It’s Gabriel. His older brother steps in and closes the door behind him. He pushes his sunglasses on top of his head and glances around until his eyes settle on Castiel. “Cas.” Gabriel grins and moves across the room, hugs him

            Castiel stiffens at the contact. Gabriel releases him and pats him on the shoulders. “You’re looking better.”

            “What are you doing here?”

            “Can’t I check in on my brother and niece?” he looks past Castiel for any sign of the little girl. “You didn’t lose her all ready did you?”

            Cas—he supposes he can be Cas while Gabriel is around, it’s okay to pretend, just for a while—rolls his eyes. “Of course not. She’s sleeping.”

            “Good.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, pushes on the soles of his feet. “Still haven’t unpacked?”

            “I’ve been busy,” Cas lies and walks towards the kitchen. Gabriel follows, pauses just a second to peek into the living room at Claire, curled in her cocoon, blonde hair tussled, arms wrapped around a stuffed rabbit.

            Gabriel slips in front of Cas once in the kitchen and jumps onto the counter. A fine, black granite. Smooth and cool to the touch. Most of the kitchen has been unpacked. All the dishes in cabinets, silverware in drawers. The wedding china wrapped in tissue paper in boxes under the table that sits in the corner of the room, in almost a little alcove. The pots and pans hang from hooks over the island counter in the center of the room. There’s food in the pantry, in the fridge and freezer, but hardly any of it is touched. Cas lives on coffee—saccharine sweet like Jimmy—and hotdogs bought at 7/11. Claire is content munching on animal crackers and sipping cold water, sometimes milk.

            Cas leans over the sink—double sink, one side with a disposal, the other wide and deep for washing dishes, or even to bathe a small infant—and looks out the window there. Pink curtains sewn by hand, matching the tiny corners of the titles. The kitchen faces the back of the property. Endless field of grass, the half-built swing set just off the concert porch. “Why are you here?” he asks again.

Gabriel kicks his shoes against the cabinet like a child. And sometimes Cas (Jimmy thought this two) that one of them was adopted. Either Gabriel had been left on the front stoop in a basket, or the twins had been stolen in the night. They didn’t look alike, Cas and Jimmy pale and dark-haired, Gabriel fair and tanned. He’s the eldest but was always the one pulling pranks, getting in trouble (though very rarely actually caught). “I told you. Just checking in on you two.”

            “You’re checking ON me, Gabriel. There is a big difference.”

            “Do you blame me?” Gabriel asks, looking at Cas sadly. Honest and with raised eyebrows, a frown.

            No, Cas doesn’t blame Gabriel. Not when Gabriel is the one that saved him, the one that made sure that he and Claire would be together.

            Shortly after Cas became Castiel, he sat in the tub and cut open his left wrist. Not too deep, but he bled a lot, so much that he got scared, called Gabriel crying. And Gabriel burst in through the front door, ran to the back of the apartment. Almost passed out, but patched up his little brother, butterfly stitches and a lot of gauze. No hospital though; if that had been on file, documented that Castiel had hurt himself, tried to take his own life, there’s no way he would have gotten Claire. Gabriel couldn’t have her; his job required him to travel far too often.

            Under some beaded bracelets (prayer beads, they were called. Gabriel’s girlfriend had slipped them over his hand) is a thick and jagged scar, where he had tried to make it stop.

            Cas lets out a long sigh, then inhales just as deep, until he can feel salt in his lungs. “I didn’t…” he begins. “I didn’t want to die.”

            Gabriel chuckles a bit, bitter, incredulous. “Could have fooled me.”

            “I didn’t,” Cas snaps, looking over. “I just…I didn’t want to feel _that_ anymore.” Like he had a limb chopped off, that he was split into two pieces, not assembled correctly.

            “Well it’s a good thing Mom taught you selflessness then.” Gabriel hops off the counter and starts browsing the cabinets. “Wouldn’t have been fair to me. Or Claire.” Mom was gone too; taken away ten years ago by cancer. Cas is a little glad though, that she didn’t have to go through what the last three Novaks were now going through. And Dad, well Dad has been out of the picture for a long, long time.

            “There’s so much _food_ here.” He stands in front of the open pantry. “Are you guys eating?”

            Cas shrugs. “Enough.”

            “Jesus, you’re going to make that girl as thin and wasted away as you are.” He starts gathering food and taking pans of their hooks. Takes down the rice cooker from the fridge. Cas glances at his body; he and Jimmy had always been thin; slight torsos, long limbs. Fine fingers and bones. Cas is quickly forgotten as Gabriel starts preparing a meal. He wanders back to the living room.

            Claire sits up on the couch, the blanket around her like a coat. She rubs her eyes and reaches out an arm and he crosses the room, feet over the stupid area rug that Jimmy had taken from their mother’s home, and sits next to her on the couch. She snuggles against his ribs. “Your Uncle Gabriel is here,” Cas tells her. “Do you remember him?” she’s only four.

            But she nods, squeezing him tighter. “I think he will be staying with us for a while. Do you mind?” She shakes her head.

            “Me either.”

 

**::**

Under a car, Dean feels at peace. The way that cooking used to, but Dean had always been fixing up cars. Taking part-time shifts at B & E Salvage yard since school, especially when Lisa was first pregnant with Ben, right around the time they bought Mary’s. He picked up the trade from his father, when he thought he’d spend his whole life alone, watching Sam grow up and be happy, and not have anything of his own.

            The classic Buick above him is almost complete. Just a few more tweaks underneath, a rotation of the tires and an oil change and it’d run like it did thirty years ago. Purr like a lion, shine like a diamond. He’d been working this one a few months now, since he was able to walk and move on his own, adjusted to not being able to see out of the left eye.

            A gust of wind kicks up the dirt, blowing it right under the car and in his face. He coughs, spits, but keeps working. A twist of the wrench. Almost done. Working on cars centers him the way yoga does for Lisa. No one talking to him, people not bugging him or staring at him. That’s the one thing that he couldn’t stand; the staring.

            More wind and dirt, Dean rubs his face, ghosting over the glass eye as he blinks. Then the sound of boots walking across gravel and the muscles in Dean’s stomach tighten. It’s too light and delicate to be Bobby.

            “Hey,” Ellen says, kicking her boot against Dean’s. His spine trembles. He tightens a bolt.

            “What?”

            “Don’t ‘what’ me, boy,” she snaps and kicks harder. “Get outta there.”

            He puts down the wrench and rag, then pulls himself out; rocks scrape against his back where his shirt has ridden up. “What?” he says again, standing.

            She rolls her eyes. Her dark hair blows every which way with the wind. She’s classically beautiful. Dark eyes, worn smile. A whiskey rough voice. She folds her arms over her chest and stares right at Dean, into his both eyes, knowing full well how much it makes him squirm. “You’ve been under there for a while.”

            He shrugs. “Gotta lot of work to do on it. Almost done though, isn’t she beautiful?” he grins and runs his hand over the hood of the car. Sleek and bright green.

            “Sure is.” She steps real close to him, like maybe she’ll touch the car, but she touches him instead, his good cheek with her hand. Warm and smooth, stretched out skin. From years of working in a bar. Her hand like the smooth and clean surface of fine wood. “How are you doing?”

            “Fine.” He backs up, but only ends up knocking into the door.

            “And Sam?”

            Another twinge of the spine and a dip in his gut. “He’s fine.” He saw his brother this morning after his run, sneaking quietly through the front door. Sam on the couch, leaning back as Dean passed.

            ‘ _Hey,_ ’ said Sam.

            ‘ _Hey_ ,’ said Dean back. They stared at each other. Dean cleared his throat. ‘ _I gotta shower.’_

_‘Yeah.’_

            And he scuttled away.

            “Good,” Ellen nods. She finally lets go of him. “We worry about you boys.” Ellen and Bobby, the surrogate parents to the wayward Winchester boys. After Mary died, Bobby had been more of a father than John; John sank deep into his depression, drinking, seeing things. Having these outlandish delusions of demons and ghosts. Wrote about it in endless journals and notebooks that Sam once found as a kid.

            Dean and Sam spent days at Bobby’s house, or at Ellen’s bar, playing with her daughter Jo, her foster son Ash. Then her first husband Billy, and John both died in a car crash and then well, everyone was just fucking miserable.

            “Well,” Dean starts and fumbles for another tool. Ellen squints from the bright sun behind them, puts her hand over her eyes to shield them so she can see him better. “We’re good. Everyone’s good.”

            “Lisa too?”

            For a minute he forgot he had a wife, a kid. Another one on the way. “Good. Everyone is fine, Ellen.” He’s piss and vinegar nowadays.

            But Ellen points her finger at him, sets her jaw tight and narrows her eyes. “Don’t you sass me. You’re not so young that I can’t send you off in the corner.”

            He kind of grins, but she still scares him time to time. A lot rougher than his own mother, but she had to be, dealing with Jo who was just as stubborn as her mother and Ash…well Ash is a different story, a different kind of weird.

            “Baby,” she says softly, like that’s what he is. Her kid, her little boy, a tenderness he hasn’t know for years. She cups his face in both her hands, doesn’t pay any attention to his scars, his fake, white eye. Dean squirms as he faintly smells laundry detergent and vanilla, tries to forget the smell of ash and burnt wood. Ellen seems to sense his distress and Dean watches the cogs in her brain shift as she changes what she’s going to say. So she just tweaks her lips. “I love you,” she says. “All of you. Just remember that.”

            He clears his throat and nods. She lets him go and picks up a wrench for him. “They want it in a week.” She refers to the customers, dropped off the piece of crap eight months ago and are now getting antsy.

            She turns and heads back to the house, yards away from the work area. On her way up, Bobby is coming in this direction. They both stop when they meet half-way, a quick kiss and she holds onto his hand until they are both too stretched a part and let go.

            Dean tries to slip back under the car before Bobby can say much. “You gonna try and sweet talk me too?”

            Bobby snorts. “There ain’t nothing sweet about that women.” He checks after her then looks back at Dean, folds his arms, raises his eyebrows.

            That churning is back, so familiar from Dean’s teen years. “What?”

            “I’m not your answering service.”

            “Huh?”

            Bobby adjusts the hat on his head. “School called. You were supposed to pick up Ben about thirty minutes ago.”

            He checks his watch. “Shit.” Checks again to be sure. “Fuck. I gotta…” he scratches his head.

            “Yeah, I know.”

            “Thanks, Bobby.” He jogs off to the car. Shit, he’s sweaty and covered in grease and oil. Under his nails and in his hair. All over his clothes. Fuck. No time to shower. He gets into the car and drives over the limit, goes through a stop sign.

            At the United Methodist church on Baker Street, the one where Lisa went every few Sundays, where her sister had gotten married, Dean parks in the pick-up/drop-off lane and enters the building, going straight to the front office.

            The receptionist—Tina? Maybe—stares at him, like he’s sprouted devil’s horns and carries a pitchfork. From his muddy boots, his torn and greased jeans, to his dirty hands. The burns on his face. The white eye. “Can I help you?” she asks, wearily, as if Dean is going to rob the place.

            “Yeah.” He tries to stand up straight, tries to look at her all sweet and nice. “I…I’m sorry I ran late. I was supposed to pick up my son, Ben Winchester, about…” he checks the clock, then focuses on her again. “Forty-five minutes ago? Is he still in the class room?”

            “Oh no, Mr. Winchester. Mrs. Winchester came by a while ago and picked him up.”

            Dean’s face falls, his chest tightens. “She did?”

            “Yes sir. We tried calling you but you were unable to be reached. So we called her.”

            Sweat collects down his neck and he twitches his nose. “All right. Thanks.”

            Tina rolls a pencil between her palms, looks Dean over again and kind of shrugs, but keeps a smile, like she’s supposed to. Dean wants to throw out a quip about not judging and continue to explain he was busy with work, but the school thinks he only works at the pie shop that he owns. So he just gives her a nod and goes back to the car. He drives to the pie shop and Lisa’s car is gone.

            Inside, Jo and Ash stand at the counter. Jo’s large eyes and raised eyebrows as she stares at him, and Ash’s dazed off look, that stupid mullet and a slack jaw. “Man, are you ever in trouble,” he says.

 

**::**

It’s ten o’clock before Dean gets home.

            Lisa sits at the table in the kitchen sipping on her mint tea, hoping to soothe the ‘morning’ sickness that’s been plaguing her since the school called and said Dean had failed to pick up Ben. Sickness brought on by the migraine. She picked up Ben, she left the shop. Sat at the park for an hour sucking on mint candy. When she and Ben got home, they only found Sam, sitting in the living room, folding everyone’s laundry.

            She made the three of them dinner and Sam actually ate. It made Ben smile more than anyone. They sit now, Sam at the corner of the couch, Ben tiny and curled against his ribs, Sam like a giant shell around the little boy. Keeps one arm around Ben’s back, holds him so close like he’ll drift away.

            The grandfather clock in the corner of the room, by the TV and window, is on its seventh strike when Dean opens the front door and slips into the house. She listens, the sound of his boots being removed and tossed in the closet, the leather jacket sliding off his body before being hung on a hanger. The keys jangle in his hand before going into his pocket.

            She straightens herself, aligns her spine. Feet flat on the floor, at width apart to match her hips. She curls her hand around her mug. Dean comes through the threshold separating the foyer and the living room. He stops and looks to the couch where Sam sits, stiffly now that Dean has returned, and the TV on low, Lisa at the table.

            They make eye contact and just… _stare_. They used to set the room on fire just by looking at one another, ever since the first night they met in that seedy bar. Smoke between them, bad country music playing on the jukebox. But now the air between them is stale, smells of ash and wood.

            “Hey,” he says, moving further into the room.

            “Hello.” She taps her nails against the glass of her mug. She tilts her chin in the direction of the couch. “Ben tried to stay up for you.”

            Dean glances over and makes eye contact with Sam, who in turn starts to shift on the cushions. They don’t mesh well anymore. The brothers, who were once a completed being, so entwined, were now like oil and water. Touching, but always separated.

            “I’ll take him to bed.”

            “How nice of you,” Lisa answers, flat and plain. He winces as if she pinched him, but she doesn’t much care. Just sips her tea as he scoops Ben from Sam’s side, then moves away from his brother as if one of them is diseased. Ben turns into Dean’s body, his head in the crook of Dean’s neck and shoulder, wraps his little arms around Dean’s frame.

            Lisa lets out a held breath when Dean and Ben are out of sight. Unclenches her leg muscles, finally releases her mug.

            Sam stands, stretching out his whole body. Tall and lean, though he’s starting to wear thin. His high cheek bones jut out, his shoulders are starting to become points instead of smoothed and round rocks of muscle. When he pulls his arms, like tree branches, over his head, his shirt rides up, revealing slim hipbones, his jeans sagging a bit. “Think I’ll go to bed.”

            “Okay.”

            He won’t sleep. He’ll watch TV down there, lay on the bed. Maybe do more laundry. Iron all the jeans.

            “Goodnight,” she calls as the basement door closes and Dean descends the stairs. He comes into the kitchen and leans on the counter, taps his fingers. “He was real tired.”

            “Like I said, he tried to wait up for you.” Oh boy did he try. After dinner he set up camp next to Uncle Sammy, watched wide-eyed for two hours at the Discovery Channel, programs about space and the far away stars. But the soft music made his eyes droop and he curled, pressing his weight into Sam.

            Dean licks his lips and leans forward on the table. She stares at his hands, the left one scarred from his knuckles up the rest of his arm. His other thumb tap-tap-taps. “I’m sorry—”

            She looks up into his gaze. “I don’t ask much of you anymore, Dean. I really don’t.” The words sound sharp as she recites what she had been practicing all day. “All you have to do is pick him up twice a week.”

“I know, but I was busy with—”

            “Yeah. A car. Or something to fix around the house. We got it. But the thing is, you didn’t even come home afterward. You just went right back to Bobby’s.” She shakes her head. It was never like this before. Sometimes she was jealous at how much time Dean spent with Ben. The two men in her life seemingly more in love with each other than with her.

            He’s expecting a fight. He’s braced for it. The yelling and the swearing, the mug she’s holding to be thrown against a wall and shattered. Their fights had once been as passionate as everything else. But now, what’s the use? She’d yell and he’d agree with her. And she’d still go to bed alone, clutching to a pillow that smells like him, and ask herself why they were even having this second baby at all.

            “Lisa,” he says her name like a prayer. Always, like he needed her to breathe.

            She stands up and puts her mug in the sink. “If you like it so much over there, maybe you’d rather spend the night.”

            He kind of laughs, a short chuckle as he leans away from the table. “You’re kidding, right?”

            Her eyebrows knit in the middle. “Does it look like I’m kidding?”

            Another hard silence. Static air and cold hands. She goes to walk past him and he reaches, taking her wrist. “Lisa,” he says quietly.

            “I don’t care what you do,” she tells him. “I’m going sleep. If you don’t plan on coming up and being with me, then yes, go to Bobby’s for the night.”

            He lets her go.

            From the bedroom, she hears him smash something in the kitchen. She’s crying—even though she tried not to—as she opens up the window and dumps out the lilacs, vase and all. She’s enveloped over his pillow, pressed to her chest and legs, her face buried in the material when she hears the engine of the Impala rev up and the tires peel out, out of the driveway and down the street.

 

**::**

Bobby and Ellen stare at Dean from the desk across the room from the couch where he sits. Ellen in a fluffy robe, Bobby still in his work clothes, glasses on the edge of his nose, but attached around his neck with a string.

            “You want something to drink?” Bobby offers. He nods. And Bobby hands him a scotch glass of whiskey which Dean swallows in one shot.

            Ellen stops him from refilling it. “Come on, El,” Bobby says. “Boy needs—”

            “Boy needs to man up,” she scoffs. Dean scowls at her. She has no right, she’s not his mother, can’t tell him what to do. “Don’t give me that look.” She sighs and rubs her temples. Dean shuffles his boots against the fraying Oriental rug. Ellen gives Bobby a kiss before going back to bed.

            Dean is getting used to these constructed silences where talking and smiles used to be. He watches the pattern on the rug, as if it’s going to change, as if it _had_ changed over the twenty-plus years it has been laying there. Picked out by Karen, the first Mrs. Singer. Dean barely remembers her. Dark hair and a kind voice, was always baking something.

            Bobby clears his throat, going behind the desk.

            “What?” Dean snaps.

            The wooden chair Bobby sets himself in squeaks with movement. He leans back, taking the glasses off his face and lets them rest against his check. “You wanna spend the rest of your life sleeping in that old room?”

            Back of the house, down the hall from the stairs. The smaller of the two extra rooms, but Dean never needed much. “No.”

            “Then what are you doin’ here?”

            Dean says nothing, just moves his gaze from the desk to the floor again. Burgundy background, black lines making patterns.

            Bobby rubs his face and leans forward, the damn chair squeaking even louder. He digs through a drawer—the bottom one, Dean thinks—before pulling out a card. “Well I ain’t your messenger boy, get up and take it,” Bobby tells him.

            Dean gets up and takes the card from the older man, a worn and aged card. The corners frayed, the whiteness smudged with years of pencil lead and dust. _St._ _Francis Church_. A phone number and a priest’s name. “What’s this?”

            “Priest runs a grief counseling group or something. Kinda like AA.”

            “I don’t need AA.”

            “No, but you need to start talkin’ to someone about what you’re going through, or else you’re gonna be thirty, alone and only seein’ your kids on the weekend.” He gets up, clicks off the light on the desk and heads towards the stairs. “It helps, okay?”

            Dean nods and clears his throat again. “Thanks.”

            He stays on the couch until he hears the master bedroom door close. Then he turns off the light by the window and goes up to his old room. Still very much in the same state he left it in. Two car posters on the wall, each with curvy women leaning over the hoods. A bed with green sheets. An analogue clock, a dresser with some spare clothes.

            Crickets outside, the wind. The only tree on the property by his window, twigs rapping against the glass. Dean lies on his stiff bed and remembers the first time he brought Lisa up to meet the family. He didn’t want to, thought it was stupid, it didn’t matter. They could just be together and happy, but she insisted and well, he was never able to tell her no.

            She was wonderful to everyone, polite and kind and fantastic and they loved her. Ellen told Dean if he screwed it up, they’d get rid of him and keep her. And that night, he would say that he and Lisa actually… _made love_. Not fucking, not two bodies just slapped together.

            But now he’s alone and cold and feels sick. Running his hand over his face he’s reminded of everything he’s lost and screwed up, painted in a map of scar tissue across his face, shoulder and side.

            Dean doesn’t sleep. He counts the stars he can see from his window and listens to Bobby snore. 


	3. Chapter 3

**.three.**

Dean smelled the fire first; the old wood of the dumbwaiter shaft, burned wires somewhere in the house. He was watching TV while Sam was rummaging the fridge. They had gotten a fair amount done in the house. New floorboards and windows. Most of the first level was ready to be occupied.

            A scream, he heard a scream. Then Dean was upstairs and he felt heat coming from the master bedroom. He kicked in the door and saw Jess on the other side of the bed, blocked by a fallen beam. More screaming. He shoved Sam out the door, out of the way. Out the back door and down the fire escape. The house became hot, so fucking hot and the smell. Wood and appliances. Smoke in his lungs. He didn’t think twice about running back into the bedroom, trying to pull Jess’ unconscious body from the floor. Then the fire was on his arm, his side, crawling up his face. He dropped her. Jess hit the floor hard.

            Banging on the door wakes Dean. He opens his eyes to the window, staring at those curtains. “Better get up if you want breakfast,” Ellen announces. He listens to her pad down the hall, the floor squeaking, her boots catching on the carpet by the stairs. Dean takes in a few deep breaths and touches his bad arm, just to make sure. No fire. No smoke. The sheets are cool against his skin, the pillow fresh and smelling of fabric softener.

            He checks the clock, seven am. Five whole hours of sleep, some sort of new record. His stomach growls, his left arm feels numb from sleeping on it, clutched tight in a fist under his pillow. On the dresser he sees a framed photo of him and Lisa, taken that first visit. Finally he gets out of bed and trudges to the connecting bathroom.

            He showers quick; bar soap over all his essential parts. Rinses in cold water, dries off with a white threadbare towel. A passing glance to the mirror to style his hair. He wears yesterday’s clothes despite the spare set in the dresser.

            The house smells musty and of bacon, hot coffee on the table. Reluctant, Dean moves from the comfort of his little room and ventures downstairs.

            Ellen sits at the rickety table in the kitchen, reading the paper, drinking her coffee. “Morning.”

            “Morning,” he says back as he pours himself a mug. Tastes like tar, but he swallows it.

            “You going home today?”

            He nods. “Have to be at the shop at twelve.” Fridays Ben doesn’t have pre-school and Lisa takes him to the park in the afternoon.

            She nods too, taking a long sip from her glass. She keeps her eyes on him and it burns through his chest. “What?” he asks.

            “Nothing.”

            It’s that jigsaw shaped silence. He actually feels it pressing against him with Ellen’s stare, with the clearing of her throat, the licking of her lips. The sound of the mug being set on the table seems to echo. So Dean finishes his coffee, quelling the growl. He does some dishes, puts them away. He feels Ellen’s stare, her pity. The woman has known him almost his whole damn life. So he takes his jacket and goes out to work on the Buick a bit, then leaves. Dirty clothes, grease under his nails again, shirt sticking to his back with sweat.

            The street they live on is almost picturesque and sometimes Dean hates it. The perfect little yards with the standard white-picket fences. Yard ornaments and in-ground sprinklers. Some of the neighbors didn’t like his nosy car, his loud rock music. But he loves their house, on the end of the street. No fence, but he keeps the yard in check. Comes out to water it every morning in the summer while Ben runs through the hose.

            He pulls up his drive. The garage door is open and Lisa’s car is gone, while Sam’s is parked in the spot in front of the house, slightly in the grass. Not that Sam has used it recently; his brother stays in the house, sometimes comes out to get the paper, once he walked down to the pier. Dean shuts off the engine and strides across the yard, picking up discarded toys. Lots of balls, a plastic truck. Something glinting in the sun catches his eye.

            Under the bedroom window, in the lilac bushes is a vase. They only have three, made of glass and each a different size. This is the small one, lying on its side in the mulch. Purple petals wilted and browning along the edges, the green stem bent at the center.

            Dean kneels to pick it up, examines the vase for any sign of damage. He sighs and drops the cluster of flowers back into the bushes. He doesn’t blame her for throwing it out the window. Doesn’t blame her for anything. He hasn’t been coming to bed, he hasn’t been spending time with his son. But they deserve someone better now, someone who doesn’t make other people uneasy. Someone who should have been able to save both people from the fire that night.

            He enters the house and kicks off the boots and hangs up his coat, rounds the foyer to the living room where he finds Sam asleep on the couch, stretched out so his feet hang off the edge. The TV is on mute and there’s a mug sitting on the coffee table. Dean clicks off the television, pulls a throw over Sam’s ginormus body and runs up the stairs.

            The bedroom is in such pristine condition, Dean isn’t entirely sure that Lisa even slept here last night. The bed is made, the pictures are all straight. She even threw out the petals from the lilac that had fallen to the floor. He swallows hard and moves across the carpet in a room that doesn’t look like it’s lived in anymore.

            But on the dresser, his dresser, she keeps a little framed photo of the two of them, from their ‘wedding’ day. At the courthouse, she wore a sundress and a frilly pink tiara bought from the dollar store, he tucked in his shirt. They only needed their names on paper, easier for the business, and Lisa did want their children to have his last name. Sam and Jess were the witnesses, and snapped the Polaroid after they signed the papers.

            He starts to get a flushing feeling in his chest and he checks himself for flames; on his arms, his face, but he’s clear. Except for the scars.

            He showers cold again, not sure if he could ever bear to feel warm again, and changes into clean clothes. Sam is still sleeping when Dean crosses the living room. He stares down for a moment, and in that moment, they’re both kids again, sleeping over at Bobby’s, sharing that small room. Dean is twelve, and Sam eight and their mother is dead and Dad is out with Billy Harvelle doing whatever it is that they do. Dean stays up all night to watch his brother if he has to. He runs a hand through Sam’s floppy hair (just as long and messy as it had been as kids) before walking away.

            At the front door, Dean hears the couch shift and Sam sigh, he stretches and groans and says, “Jess.” Before falling silent again.

            Balls.

            Dean walks out of the house and softly closes the door. It gets hard to breathe with each step out to the car. He slides into the Impala, his jeans against the fine, soft leather of the seat. Curls his hands knuckle-white over the wheel. The pounding sound of his heart gets louder and he feels a flush of warm tears roll down his right cheek. He sits there for about fifteen minutes crying and trying to catch his breath.

            In the rearview mirror, he watches the kid down the street ride his bike, and Mrs. Crane walk by with her stupid dog. When he’s finally able to breathe again, Dean looks up at the house, and sees Sam standing at the bay window, sheet wrapped around his shoulders. They both stare and Dean sniffles before backing out of the driveway.

 

**::**

“I don’t hear splashing, Castiel!” Gabriel yells with a laugh from the stairwell.

Cas splashes his hand in the tub and listens for Gabriel to walk away and back down to the first level. When he declared he wanted to take a bath this morning instead of a shower, Gabriel wouldn’t fucking _leave_ until Cas filled up the tub, and promised to leave the door open.

He sinks deep into the water, so hot that he feels like soup. His skin pinks over and he can almost fit his whole body under the water. And he’s a tall guy. Not the tallest, but he and Jimmy are at about six even. Maybe six-one. Gabriel is short and complains, or complained, about his younger brothers towering over him. But he doesn’t say a lot about Jimmy nowadays.

            The last time Cas took a bath was the day he slit his wrist. He tries not to think about it, the bracelets usually keep the welted scar covered, but he plays with it now, running his fingers over the mark the way he had run the blade over his veins. Jimmy is dead and Gabriel doesn’t trust him.

            That’s why Gabriel is still here, after two weeks. Because he thinks that Cas will slip. Will finally and really crush under the weight of the missing brother, the missing half to his whole.

            Cas and Claire have been existing in the house as ghosts. Moving quietly from room to room, bedroom to the living room mostly. To the kitchen where Gabriel prepares all the meals. Cas does the dishes. Claire colors and Gabriel talks on the phone. None of them sleep well. Claire kicks, thrashes. She wakes up crying and clutches onto Cas like a remora fish. And he clung back, needing her just as much.

            Outside, seagulls fly by the house, making that awful sound. Cas sees them from the small window above the shower head. The swoop down and up the side of the house, their white feathers like flapping angel wings. Castiel, because right now, he is Castiel again. That unhinged piece of life, dunks himself completely under. His knees poke up a bit, he holds onto the edge of the tub with slick palms.

            The muted noise is nice. The thrumming of his heart beat, of his blood rushing to his ears. He wonders what Jimmy heard, what Jimmy felt right there at the end. It had been quick, almost instant, Castiel and Gabriel were told. Dead shortly after getting to the hospital, Amelia had died in the car.

            Cas’ lungs start to burn, but he stays under, holding his hands knuckle-white to the porcelain. Someone’s calling, but he ignores it. Maybe he’s just hearing Jimmy again. A long lost yell from their childhood. Heavy steps, running. The lights from above the sink are blocked. Cas opens his eyes under the water and Gabriel is standing there, leaning over the tub, hands on his hips. Cas pops up with a gasp, water sloshing every where. “What are you doing?” He asks with a frown, searching for a washcloth or something to put over his lap.

            Gabriel rolls his eyes and sits down on the closed toilet. “I’ve seen you naked.”

            “Yeah, like, twenty years ago.” Cas settles himself to sit up, puts his hands over his groin.

            “What, has it not gotten any bigger?”

            Cas brings his knees up to his chest. “Fuck you. What do you want?”

            He shakes his head. “I was calling you and you didn’t answer.”

            “Stop treating me like a head case, Gabriel,” Cas snaps.

            “Be nice, Cassie.” He quirks his eyebrows. “Claire’s up. Eating. Which is more than what I can say for you.”

            Cas frowns. He’s skinny, getting thinner. He eats breakfast, but still mostly lives on coffee. “Is she crying?”

            “No.”

            “Good.”

            Gabriel swallows and runs a hand through his long hair. He leans forward. “I have to head out to California for a while. Work isn’t letting me…I mean I have to get back for a while.”

            Cas shrugs, flicks at the water with his fingers. Charcoal is stuck under his nails, smudged all over the pad of his thumb. “Okay.”

            “Look. Kali knows this chick…she runs a grief counseling thing over at the big church. I think you should go while I’m gone. Have someone to talk to.”

            “I’ve been to therapy before.” His slouches his shoulders, flicks the water again before hold his right hand over his left wrist, the scar pressing into his palm.

            Gabriel rakes both hands over his tired face. “It’s not therapy. Just…you need to leave the house, she needs to leave the house. Put her in school or something.”

            “And who is going to watch her while I go to these sessions?”

            “How about the chick that used to babysit her before?”

            On the refrigerator with names listed on a long sheet of paper, is _Amy Long ♥ 334-9083_. Jimmy had talked about her, a nice college student who watched Claire three days a week. Some days while Jimmy wrote and Amelia worked.

            “You’re my brother,” Gabriel continues, his voice soft, serious for once. “I love you. And I love that little girl. And I’m worried sick about the both of you. I miss Jimmy too. But we all have to start getting out of bed, and getting out of this house.”

            Cas has to look away from his brother; that green-eyed stare, intense, scared. He can’t imagine the pain Gabriel went through dragging his limp and bloody body out of a tub and onto tiled floor. If he could take anything back, it would be that. “I know,” he whispers. “I’ll go.”

            “Thank you.” He stands and ruffles Castiel’s wet hair before walking out, leaving the door wide open.

            “This better be a real thing and not some strip joint or sex club!” Cas calls.

            Gabriel laughs loudly and Cas actually kind of smiles.

 

**::**

Lisa lies on her back staring at the ceiling. She kicks her feet a bit, plays with the hem of her shirt. Dean sits on a rolling chair in the corner, his scarred side facing the wall. He pushes himself back and forth, the wheels making a terrible squeaking sound. He’s been on his best behavior. Picks up Ben from school on time, comes home after being at Bobby’s. But he still doesn’t come to bed. He keeps his late hours wandering and cleaning the house. Late night runs, working at the shop at all hours. They spoke in small talk, existed in shifts of each other.

            Dean starts squeaking the chair to a song in his head. “Smoke on the Water”, but just the first few bars. “Stop it,” she says.

            He pauses a second, but leans forward for one last long squeak. “Why?”

            “Because you’re thirty.”

            The door swings open and Dr. Gavin walks in. She smiles, warm and pleasant. “How are we doing today, Lisa?”

            “Good. We’re good.”

            No more queasiness, but her back is killing her. She’s been skipping her yoga, between Ben and the shop. Dr. Gavin pushes up Lisa’s shirt and sits on a little stool that moves, brings up the ultrasound machine. “How about you, Mr. Winchester?”

            Dean’s attention is pulled and he stands, comes to Lisa’s side like he’s supposed to do. Their actions when they’re in public are coordinated. Happy husband and wife, one happy boy, another child on the way. He smiles and nods, his hands on the exam table, but he doesn’t actually touch her. “Doin’ well.”

            “Good.” Dr. Gavin reaches for the goo. “A little cool.”

            Lisa grimaces. “Oh yeah, I remember.”

            A squirt and the gel is all over her stomach. Lisa shivers. “Nice little bump you’ve got,” the doctor says.

            “Yeah.” Lisa smiles. It’s just starting to be noticeable. When she watches herself in the mirror or in the shower. None of her jeans fit, some of her skirts and dresses don’t. There’s weight in her face, heavy around her hips. With Ben, Dean was always touching her. His hands on her stomach, always kissing her through the material of her shirt. She shakes her head and holds onto her shirt and squirms as Dr. Gavin rubs the wand over her stomach.

            “Oop little one is hiding a bit,” the doctor mindlessly comments and keeps moving the wand. Lisa takes a glance from the screen to Dean; he watches intently. Elbows on the table, face in his palms. The injured side of his face is towards her.

            Dr. Gavin perks up. “Ah ha! There we go.” She rubs a little harder. “Right there.”

            Lisa snaps her head and looks at the screen where swirled in grays and blues, is the baby. The tiny thing that’s been pushing her stomach. “Dean, look,” she gasps and leans forward, loosing the entire wall that she had.

            The baby just flutters, reaching out as if startled, then brings the arm back to its chest and a hand in its mouth. “Are you feeling anything yet?”

            “A little,” Lisa answers, her voice just a tiny cusp of a sound.

            Dean clears his throat and moves. That stupid chair makes another long squeak. “Kicks?”

            She doesn’t take her eyes off the screen. The fetus clearly baby-shaped, a large head, a hand and legs. “No. No kicks, just…”

            “Getting some room in there,” Dr. Gavin answers. “It’s common. Won’t feel real kicks for a while.”

            “Yeah.” It’s just like the first time they saw Ben, but different. Like Lisa’s never seen an ultrasound, like she’s never been pregnant. There’s a steady blipping of the heart, of the sound of the machine. She swallows and wipes under her eyes. And then she feels something, something that’s almost become foreign to her.

            Dean’s hands encasing hers, fingers laced together. She gasps, looking over. He’s smiling, tilts his head to look at her. There’s a kiss; fleeting and light, but she knows it well, feels it deep down inside. They were a family again, they were in love.

            The doctor continues. “We are at a good angle here, do you want to know the sex?”

            “Yes,” Lisa answers without hesitation. She couldn’t wait for Ben, and she can’t wait with this one either.

            “Congratulations,” says the doctor. “It looks like you’re having a girl.”

            Lisa is given a washcloth to wipe her stomach free of goo, they’re given pictures of the baby. Two shots on glossy paper. They’re left alone to talk, to clean up. Lisa sits back up and slips her feet back into her sandals. Dean stands, walking to the other side of the room. “Are you upset?” she asks. Maybe he wanted another boy, maybe he didn’t want this one at all. She’s still crying, happy, elated.

            He shakes his head, clears his throat again. “No. No it’s great. I just…I gotta thing at Bobby’s and uh, I was gonna pick up Ben.”

            Their son has been with his adopted grandparents all morning. “Oh,” Lisa answers. “Okay. But, I’ll see you at home? For dinner?” Maybe things would be different now. He touched her, he kissed her.

“Yeah.” He steps forward and kisses her on the forehead. She inhales his smell, the leather of his jacket, the aftershave. Oil seemingly a permanent part of his scent, embedded deep under his skin, in the fat of his cells. He pulls away and she feels all the air that passes them.

He’s to the door before she speaks again. “Dean.” He stops and turns to look at her, sunglasses at ready in his hand. People stare, stare at his face, the glassy white eye that doesn’t look at anything. “I love you,” she says. She hasn’t been saying that to anyone besides Ben. Not since the hospital when Dean started to recoil from her and her affections.

            His lips tweak into what others would call a smile and he grabs the door knob. “Me too.” Then slips out of the room, leaving Lisa alone.

 

**::**

The drive over, the whole goddamn drive over, Dean’s crying. He can’t make it stop. No matter how loud he has the music, or how many cigarettes he smokes. He tries to think of something happy, better. The screen where he had just seen his child, his daughter, for the first time, but that just makes it worse.

            He parks the car crooked at Bobby’s, almost crashing into Ellen’s van. He doesn’t bother rolling up the windows, or turning off the lights. He just gets out of the car, makes it up the steps and into the house.

            “If you’re here to rob the place, take what you want,” Bobby calls from the den.

            Dean follows the gruff voice and stands in front of Bobby at the desk. Warm tears on his face, a clicking to his jaw. “Okay, you win, I’ll go.”

            “Go where?” Bobby takes off his glasses and leans back in the chair. “Dean what’s—”

            “We uh…saw the baby today,” he explains. “And it’s a girl and that is fucking fantastic.” He sort of smiles, but can’t manage all the way. “But I can’t touch her. I can’t touch any of them. Not like this. So I’ll go.” The crying doesn’t stop. He just wipes under his eyes. “Where’s it at?” Of course, Dean had tossed the business card Bobby gave no more than five minutes after getting in the car and driving down the road.

            Bobby glowers at him, but scribbles down the address on a sticky-note, then hands it to Dean. “Now, Rufus ain’t there currently—”

            Dean pops up his head. “Rufus? Rufus is the priest you’re talking about?” Father Rufus Turner, an old army buddy of Bobby’s. Scary man, crazy, but some how ran a nice church where people loved him, ran a soup kitchen downtown. He’d been over a lot for family dinners, was around almost every day after Karen died. After John and Billy too.

            “Watch your mouth, he’s good at what he does.” Yeah, but he also knows that Dean used to cry himself to sleep as a teenager after the death of his father, that he and Sam shared a bed for years after Mary died. “But he’s on a mission in Cambodia or something,” Bobby continues. “So they’ve got some gal from the university in running the thing.”

            “A girl? Come on, Bobby—”

            “You know Rufus just wouldn’t leave the congregation in the hands of any joe-blow off the streets. I’m sure she’s a nice lady. And all you gotta do is sit there.”

            Dean chews on his bottom lip and nods. The tightness is gone, but there’s still a burning, from his face to his arm. The way it felt while in the hospital and he was covered in gauze, right before the morphine gave and he needed the next dose. They sit there in silence for a while until Dean stops hiccupping and his eye clears up. Bobby pats him on the shoulder.

            The front door opens and closes and there’s the familiar sound of Ben’s sneakers pounding on carpet, of Ellen’s boots against the hard wood floor. At the threshold of the den and hallway, Ben freezes seeing Dean sitting there on the threadbare couch. His face lights up and he runs across the room.

            “Daddy!” He yells just before leaping at Dean, into his open arm. Dean holds his son, close, inhales the sweet scent of his hair, the heavy dirt on his clothes. “Daddy.” His voice is muffled against Dean’s shirt and he’s holding on a little too tight. Ben wiggles himself free. “Ell took me, took me around back and we got rocks.”

            “You got rocks?” He clears his throat.

            “Yeah.” Ben digs in his pockets. Typical east coast rocks. Sharp and like gravel, but there’s one that’s smooth, kind of a pink color. Little gold-like flakes. “I’m gonna give this one to Mommy.”

            “I think she’ll like it,” Dean approves.

            Ellen takes off her jacket. “Everything okay in here, boys?”

            “Yeah,” Bobby answers. He gets up from his chair and grabs his glasses, a folder full of papers. “I’m gonna check the messages in the office.”

            “Okay. Lunch in an hour.”

            “Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes but they kiss as he passes and Dean swears the room lights up because Ellen smiles a special kind of smile and Bobby walks away without a grumble.

            Ben tugs on Dean’s sleeve of the bad arm. His little fingers brush over the map of scars and Dean recoils a bit. Ben makes a face, but keeps tugging, testing the limits. “Where’s Mommy?”

            “She’s at the shop today.”

            “Are you staying here with me and Ell today?” he holds Dean’s jacket between his little hands.

            “Yeah, buddy. I’ll stay for a little bit.”

 

 

 


End file.
